Death Run (7 page)

"Who are you working for?" Bolan asked.

"Fuck you, man," the man — he was really just a kid — said, then laughed again.

"You working for Botros?" The kid said nothing, but a look of recognition crossed his face when Bolan said the name. "Do you know where they've taken the plutonium?"

"What are you talking about plutonium?" the kid said. "You white boys need to lay off that meth."

"Didn't you know?" Bolan asked. "Your boss has brought enough plutonium into the country to build a bomb so big it could blow up this city and take Oakland with it. He's not even going to have to pay you what he owes you because he's going to kill you. He's going to kill your homies, your mother, your sister, your baby momma, and everyone you've ever known. You fools are helping to get your own families killed."

"Man, you keep talking that shit, I'm gonna cut you." The kid kept talking tough, but Bolan could see real fear in his eyes. He'd seen or heard something that convinced him there was truth to what the Executioner said.

"Go ahead and try," Bolan said. "But I'm not the person who's going to kill your entire family. How does it feel to help someone kill everyone you've ever known?"

The man spit again, but this time he didn't spit at Bolan. Instead he just cleared his mouth and tried to speak. "I saw it," he said. "In the warehouse. We unloaded the cask."

"You saw what?" the Executioner asked. "Where?"

"The cask. We helped unload a heavy steel cask."

The kid choked and coughed up a lot of blood. Bolan knew he wasn't going to last long.

"Where? Where is the cask?"

"Santa Cruz." The kid coughed up more blood, but this time he couldn't clear his throat. "Near the railroad tracks." He coughed a couple of times, desperately trying to catch his breath, and finally dropped his head, silent. Bolan checked his pulse and found none. He could hear sirens fast approaching. He ran back to his motorcycle and roared down Leavenworth Street towards the freeway.

"Bear, I need you to access a spy satellite for me," Bolan said to Aaron Kurtzman. "Something going over Santa Cruz." The soldier had contacted the Stony Man Farm computer expert the moment he'd returned to his hotel room in Monterey after his trip to San Francisco.

"I can get photography at twenty-three-minute intervals," Kurtzman replied. "Unless whoever you're looking for knew the exact orbits of our satellites and had perfect timing, I should be able to find something. What am I looking for?"

"Some guys unloading a heavy cask or container from a van or truck at a warehouse."

"Are we looking for a Type B container filled with ten kilos of plutonium 239?"

"Something along those lines," the soldier replied.

"I need something more," Kurtzman said. "There aren't a lot of warehouses in Santa Cruz, but what you just gave me could describe almost every delivery to every single one of them.

"Look near the railroad tracks." The soldier had taken a detour through Santa Cruz on his way back from San Francisco and he'd identified several likely warehouse facilities that were along the railroad tracks that ran through town just south of the Cabrillo Highway — California's famous Highway One, also known as the Coast Highway. He gave Kurtzman the GPS coordinates of the prime candidates.

"Anything else that could help me?"

"This might be a long shot, but look for a black Hummer H2 with dark tinted windows."

"That's not much."

"Do your best, Bear."

The sun poked up over the hills to the east when the Executioner finally laid down for some sleep. Less than two hours later, a sharp rap at the door woke him up. He threw on the large robe the hotel had provided, sliding a Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife into the sleeve in case he needed it. Then he grabbed a wire hanger from the closet, untwisted it and used it to hold a black shirt in front of the peephole as he stood to the side of the door. When no shots came through the door, he chanced a look through the peephole.

"Oh hell," Bolan said to himself when he saw the two conservatively dressed Americans at the door. Their dark suits, unstylish neck ties and humorless demeanor meant one of only two possibilities, and since they were too old to be Mormon missionaries they had to be the FBI agents Kurtzman had warned him about earlier.

Bolan opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation," the taller of the two men said. "I'm Agent Smith and this is Agent Kowalski." They both showed Bolan their badges. Bolan inspected the badges so he could be reasonably certain they were legit before letting the two men into his room. "We'd like to discuss yesterday's events," Smith said.

"Did I leave something out of my report to the police yesterday?" the Executioner asked? "I believe I was thorough."

"We've read the report," Kowalski, the shorter of the two said. "You were very thorough."

"Is there a problem?" Bolan asked.

"No problem," Kowalski said. "We just have some questions to help us tie up a few loose ends. Why were you looking for Eddie Anderson when he was kidnapped?"

"I'd had a conversation with him prior to attending a meeting earlier in the morning."

"A conversation about what?" Smith asked.

"About his late brother," Bolan said. "The young man seemed upset."

"Why did you care that he was upset?" Kowalski asked. "You have no chance of sponsoring a major team like the Ducati factory squad. What does Anderson mean to you?"

"He is a great racer, and I'm a fan. And he seemed to be in a great deal of pain over the loss of his brother. As I said, he seemed upset. I didn't have another meeting until the evening and Mr. Anderson had no practice sessions until today, so I thought I'd pay him a visit."

"Lucky for him that you did," Smith commented, prompting Kowalski to glare at his taller partner.

"Our files say that you work for CCP Petroleum," Kowalski said.

"Correct," Bolan replied. "Is that a crime?"

"No," Kowalski replied, "but killing four men might be."

"I don't understand," Bolan said. "Those men clearly meant to kidnap or kill Eddie Anderson, and they tried to kill me. That doesn't justify the use of lethal force?"

"It certainly does," Smith said. "I don't think anyone here is implying that you have committed a crime of any kind. As my partner said, we're just trying to tie up a few loose ends."

"So you said. Gentlemen, I've given all the information I have to the authorities. I've had a very difficult day and I still have work to do. I'll be glad to answer any questions, but please, let's not go around and around. Please get to your point."

"We have no point, Mr. Cooper," Kowalski said. "We just need to tie up a few loose ends."

After wasting nearly two hours with the FBI agents, Bolan made his way to the track where he found Eddie Anderson in the middle of Friday morning practice. This was the young American's home race, and he'd already won countless races on this track when he was racing Superbikes in the U.S. His lap times reflected his familiarity with the track and before the first session was over, not only had he set the fastest times, he'd unofficially broken the track record. Tomorrow he would almost certainly break the official record for a qualifying lap and he would likely set a race lap record during Sunday's main event. If he lived that long.

While the youngster circled the track, Bolan watched for Osborne, the blacksuit who was supposed to be watching Anderson. Either the man was very good or he was absent because the soldier found no sign of him. He hoped Osborne was that good but he doubted it. If the man had been present, Bolan would have found some trace of him. It was not a good sign.

When Anderson finished his session, Bolan met him as he walked back to his motor home. "Hey," the young man said by way of greeting.

"Hey," the Executioner responded in kind.

The young rider looked the soldier up and down. "I still can't figure out what your story is," he said. "You sure ain't no fuel salesman."

"You want to see my credentials, perhaps speak with my director?"

"Whatever," Anderson said. "At least you ain't no pervert, near as I can tell, anyway."

"I do my best," Bolan responded.

"So what is your story? What I saw you do yesterday, I've never seen anyone do something like that before."

"I've had a little martial arts training," Bolan said.

Anderson seemed to buy that. "I take it that yesterday wasn't the first time you killed a man with your bare hands."

Bolan didn't respond.

"I'm just glad you're here Mr. Cooper."

"Please, it's Matt. Haven't you hired someone for protection? It might be wise, given what happened yesterday."

"Some cop from the San Francisco Police Department showed up yesterday evening, said he was supposed to keep an eye on me."

"Where is he?" Bolan asked.

"I canned him," Anderson said. "I told him I didn't need a babysitter, and told him to get the hell out of here."

"And he left?"

"Hell no! I had to call security and have him escorted out of here."

"You don't worry about another attempt on your life?" Bolan asked.

"They had their chance. They won't try anything again, at least not here." The young man sounded sure of himself. Bolan felt less confident about the kid's safety.

"You said you have proof that your brother was killed," Bolan said. "What proof?"

"I'll show you." Bolan followed Anderson into his motor home, where Anderson dug out a banjo-bolt fitting wrapped in a grease rag and handed it to the Executioner.

"What's this?" Bolan asked.

"It's the brake line connection from Darrick's bike," Anderson said.

"How'd you get it?"

"I stole it from the Free Flow garage complex at Losail. They won't miss it; they're supposed to examine the wreckage but they have no interest in it. They don't seem to give much of a shit about what happened to Darrick."

"I got that impression myself," Bolan said. "Why is this important?"

"Look at the thread on the male fitting." Bolan did. The thread seemed like new, except for the first two rungs, which were stripped clean.

"That bolt was never tightened down. Someone deliberately just barely got the threads started, tightening them just enough so that they'd hold as long as there was no pressure applied to the brakes. As soon as someone grabbed a handful of brake, that thing popped right off," Anderson said.

It looked to Bolan like the kid was on to something. "Why would anyone want to kill your brother?" he asked.

"Time was, just about everyone wanted to kill him, back when he was banging cocaine and drinking twenty-four hours a day. Even before that. When he had the championship, he was an ass — arrogant, cocky, rude, abusive. Killing him even crossed my mind once or twice, especially after our parents were killed in a car accident and he didn't even bother to come to the funeral. Said he had a tire test in Jerez, Spain, but he didn't show up for that either," Anderson said angrily. He paused.

"But he'd changed. He wasn't the same person he was back then. He was doing great. It was like I had my brother back." Anderson pointed to the bolts from his brother's bike. "And then those bastards took him away from me."

"It doesn't make sense. Why'd they kill their top rider?" the Executioner asked.

"I don't know," Anderson said. "I do know that they don't care one whit about motorcycle racing. I don't know why they're even here."

Bolan suspected that the reason they were here was because they intended to commit a major act of terrorism somewhere on the west coast, but there was know point in mentioning that to the younger Anderson brother. And the soldier suspected that the reason they killed Darrick was because he either knew something or they were afraid he might know something. One thing was certain — they were dealing with some dangerous men.

"I suppose you think I'm crazy, just like everyone else," Anderson said.

"No, I believe you. I know these men are capable of committing murder," Bolan said.

Eddie Anderson looked at the soldier. "That's strange information for a fuel salesman to have."

"My company does its research on potential business partners," Bolan said. "These are some bad men, and they're capable of anything. They're capable of killing your brother, and they're capable of killing you. I wish you'd reconsider letting the police officer protect you."

"Hell no! I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will."

Bolan respected the kid's dedication to self-sufficiency, but he knew that this inexperienced youth was no match for a group of trained and dedicated terrorists.

"If you're so good at taking care of yourself," the Executioner said, "how come every time I see you someone is either throwing you out of a building or throwing you into a car?"

Bolan could tell he'd hit a nerve.

The kid's eyes narrowed. "I think it's time for you to leave. I have to prepare for afternoon practice," Anderson said.

Eddie Anderson missed his apex on Laguna Seca's turn two, the famous Andretti Hairpin. He couldn't get his head into the moment, a moment that saw his negotiating one of the world's most challenging racetracks aboard what was perhaps the fastest motorcycle on Earth. He couldn't shake his brother's death out of his head.

He made the next several corners as if on autopilot, and as the next right-hand corner approached, he couldn't remember if it was Turn Five or Turn Six. It turned out to be the more rounded Turn Five and not the sharper-edged Turn Six, though he once again missed his apex because he'd mentally prepared for Turn Six. These were stupid, rookie mistakes and Anderson chastised himself for making them.

He cleared his mind by Turn Six and executed the corner perfectly, getting a hard drive up the hill toward the corkscrew. He threw his bike to the left, down the hill into the corkscrew, then made a beautiful arcing turn to the right, apexing perfectly at the bottom of the hill as he left the corkscrew, hitting one hundred and fifty miles per hour before braking for Turn Nine. Anderson's technique for negotiating the corkscrew was nearly perfect, almost as good as his brother's had once been. Darrick had been universally regarded as the king of Laguna Seca.